Feminine Rage
by toxil3
Summary: Joan comes home in a foul mood. Sherlock's social ineptitude reaches new heights. But somehow the night turns out...not entirely unpleasant...


Joan Watson slammed the door behind her as she stepped into the brownstone, and immediately regretted it. She was in no mood for talk, and no doubt her entrance was going to attract the attention of the last person in the world she wanted to be around. She hurriedly undid the straps of her stilettos, hoping to make a speedy getaway upstairs.

"Watson?" Sherlock called from the dining room. He was craning his head and looking right her. Watson swore under her breath. "You're quite early back from your date, Watson."

"It wasn't a date," Watson snapped back at him, slinging her heels over her shoulder.

"You've arranged your hair differently. You've also done your makeup differently, accentuating your eyes, in fact. I can see it from here, so if that was your intent, I'd have to commend you on achieving that goal. Also you've still got your coat on, but I'm willing to bet you're wearing a dress under there. I'm not quite sure what other occasion there is for you to be done up to the extent you are, unless it's a date or a rather upmarket function of some sort."

Watson stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand tightening on the bannister. "Are you quite done with your little examination, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's figure suddenly appeared in the door. He had that characteristic blank, wide-eyed stare on his face. The one that threw off most people when they first met him, making them think he was either shocked or simply crazed. But no. It was his analytic face. "So it was a date?"

If Sherlock was closer, she would have probably tried to punch him in the face. "Good night, Sherlock," she said curtly, starting up the stairs.

"Joan, wait. Wait, wait. Before you go, I've been looking through these cold case files all evening. I've sorted out 6 or 7 of them, but this one I'm on right now…I've got a theory about something but I need a second opinion on this clue in these photographs—"

"Sherlock, I know you struggle with deciphering social cues, but this expression on my face right here is me not wanting to do anything or help anyone right now. I just want to get changed, get this makeup that 'accentuates my eyes' off my face, and get into bed. Whatever it is, I'm sure your judgment is good enough."

"Joan, come on—it's a few photos."

"From a cold case, Sherlock. Figuring it out tomorrow morning isn't going to hurt anything."

"Just hear me out, Joan. Come see the photos, won't you? And if you ignore me and go upstairs, I'll just come up and sit outside the bathroom and talk to you about it through the door anyway. You and I both know that you're going to up and sit in the bath all cross for about an hour, mulling over your horrible night, and then mull about it some more once you've climbed into bed, and not really get to sleep till about 3 in the morning. While I respect your right to do those things, it's quite frankly an abominable waste of time considering—"

"ALRIGHT, SHERLOCK."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, disappearing from the doorway. Joan threw her hands up in surrender and dumped her shoes by the door as she resentfully followed him to the dining room.

It really wasn't much of a dining room anymore. When they'd first moved in, the long wood-paneled room had the potential to be quite elegant with an extended dining table and some tasteful décor. That was before Sherlock invaded it. On the 2nd day of their residence, she had returned home after a few hours and found that Sherlock, suddenly desiring a table, had gone on Craigslist and contacted the closest seller to the brownstone and bought one. Not only was it disproportionately small compared to the room, but it was a completely different color of wood than the wall paneling. She was only grateful that it was almost always completely covered in case files and Sherlock's notes so she didn't have to see the eyesore piece of furniture too often. And thankfully, guests didn't notice it very much either; they were usually distracted by the infinite case photos and pages that Sherlock had swathed all over the walls. The landlord had distinctly fussed about not putting holes in the wallpaper, and yet Sherlock had pins everywhere, with strings and yarn connecting them together in intricate patterns. If they were any indication of how Sherlock's mind worked, then it wasn't much of a surprise that his social skills were so lacking. He was like the stereotypical arrogant genius kid in high school—extraordinarily brilliant but not an ounce of common courtesy or the ability to empathize. And Sherlock knew it. Which was why he so often enlisted her help during cases. "Because you're good at that sort of thing," he often told her.

"Coffee?" Sherlock offered. "I just made a pot."

"Fine," Joan said brusquely. She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over a chair, no longer hiding the fact that she was in a mid-thigh, one-shouldered, dark red dress.

Sherlock set a steaming mug down beside her and looked her up and down. "Nice _dress_," he said pointedly before retreating to the other side of the table.

Perhaps he had enough social adeptness to know she was inches away from dumping that mug of coffee all over his head.

He brandished a small stack of photos, setting it down in front of her. "Talia Evans, age 7. Born and raised in Brooklyn. Disappeared from school on January 11th of 2001. Her stay-at-home mother made the 10 minute walk to school to pick her up as she did every day, but the child was not there. Teacher swore Talia was included in the class headcount before bringing the children out to their parents, even remembers zipping up her jacket for her. So she somehow went missing in that 3 minute span of time from the classroom to the front steps of the school. Suspects at the time were her father, a close family friend, Joseph Harrington, and a somewhat dodgy school crossing guard, Cole Dalton, all of whom were cleared, supposedly having solid alibis. The girl was never found."

"Sad," Joan murmured, flicking through the photos. They featured a cute, pig-tailed girl with a gap-toothed smile.

"Maybe not," Sherlock pressed. "Look more carefully through those photos. Most are from a class trip to the zoo. The rest are from a class Halloween party and a Christmas holiday party."

Joan sank down into a chair and started again, scanning each of the pictures. While at first they seemed perfectly innocent, she couldn't help but notice the same face appearing in nearly all the pictures. She frowned, separating out a few. Sherlock scrambled back around the table to peer over her shoulder excitedly.

"Well?" he urged.

"Well, if you want to stop breathing down my neck," Joan said witheringly. Sherlock dragged a chair close and plopped down beside her, still obliviously invading her personal bubble. "The teacher," she stated with a sigh, knowing Sherlock was about to jump out of his skin. Nothing seemed to enthuse him more than someone affirming his conclusions. "Every photo Talia is in, she is in it as well. These photos of the other kids in Talia's class…interestingly the teacher is not in them. She kneels down next to her and puts her arm around her in every posed photo—"

"More like a devoted mother than a teacher," Sherlock interrupted.

"And the dirty faces she gives Talia's mother when she's with Talia," Joan added, pointing at two of the photos.

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, scrutinizing the pictures. "Well—yes, that other blatant clue—" he said quickly.

"You totally didn't catch that at all," Joan deadpanned. "But you can take credit for that too if you want."

Sherlock gathered up the photos, pursing his lips. "Goodness, Joan, you really are no fun at all tonight."

"Like I said earlier—I just want to go to bed." She stood up, scooping up her coat. "You didn't need my help for that, Sherlock."

"Well I was about 98% sure about it considering the teacher suspiciously quit her job due to 'emotional distress,' but some collaboration over the theory was reassuring. I can put a call in to Captain Gregson in full confidence now."

"You are so full of it, Sherlock," Joan groaned in annoyance. "You never need reassuring. If anything, you just wanted to show off to someone that you made a break in cold case with a missing little girl. A victim who might not be dead for once."

"Or, Joan, it was because I was fancying a bit of human companionship and was also hoping to distract you from whatever horrible date experience it was that you had tonight. But it must have been especially terrible seeing as you're quite intent on carrying on with your little 'pissfest' no matter what," Sherlock said loudly now. "That's a little colloquialism I picked up from the criminal we arrested last week, in case you were wondering how I became so poetic."

Joan narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest. Was he serious? Calling her in here to show off how intelligent he was supposed to distract her? How did she ever get stuck with such an insensitive, childish ape? "I did not have a 'bad date experience.' My date had to leave early because he received an important call in the middle of our dinner. We had a nice evening planned and he got called away, and he wasn't exactly gentlemanly about it. So that is why I'm annoyed, Sherlock. I was looking forward to the date all week, thinking he was a decent guy, and it didn't work out. Just like the other 4 dates I've gone on since moving here. So yes. I'm irritated. Would you like me to lay out my innermost feelings for you and save you the trouble of doing the little mental dissection that I know is going on in your head right now?"

"No need, Watson," Sherlock said, tucking the photos into the case file and shuffling some papers together. "It's quite clear. You were hoping to have sex tonight."

Joan's jaw almost dropped. "Excuse me?"

"I'll admit I wasn't aware of one of those other four dates you mentioned—must have been a daytime coffee date while you said you were 'running errands'—but anyhow, if you've only had failed dates since moving here, meaning you haven't gotten to know any men very well or haven't engaged in any one-night stands, then that would mean you haven't had intercourse in about seven months. And considering that you had some sort of life-changing tragedy that tore you away from your career as a surgeon prior to you becoming my babysitter, I can't really imagine you being in a suitable mental state to have wanted to copulate during that time either. So really it must be closer to eight or nine months? Perhaps even closer to a year?"

"Sherlock, I am literally going to kick the shit out of you if you don't shut your—"

"It's really nothing to be ashamed of. I've not fornicated with anyone since that first day I met you, so it's been a substantial amount of time for me as well. Sometimes it's necessary. I find I need it sometimes to clear my head. Scientifically, women are less likely to brazenly seek out sex than men, but they do it all the same, so it's perfectly natural, Watson. No need for embarrassment at all."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sherlock? You really have no idea when to shut up, do you? None of this is any of your business! Why are you trying to bait me when you know I'm already pissed?"

"That wasn't my intent—"

"You're just so smart, aren't you Sherlock? You can't keep it to yourself. You have to analyze everyone and prove you can figure out everything. Fine. FINE. Yes. I haven't had sex in months. And yes, my date was extremely attractive, and I would've been fine if I ended up at his apartment at the end of the night. In fact, that's what I was hoping for. Is that what you wanted to hear, you arrogant prick?"

Sherlock was avoiding her gaze now, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shrugging. "It wasn't really necessary to share, I suppose."

"Oh after all that, you can't look me in the eye now, Sherlock?" she hissed incredulously. She marched over, slamming her hands down on the table and leaning over him.

Sherlock edged back in his chair. "Watson…you are clearly upset. Perhaps we should call a truce, and I can apologize for speaking without thinking."

"Oh no, Sherlock. There's no need for that. I'm quite happy to share now that we've opened up to each other. Let me tell you how I really feel—I would much rather be at that guy's apartment right now screwing his brains out, so I wouldn't have to be here with you, getting my whole life picked apart and scrutinized in this fucking dining room that fucking looks like the NYPD's filing cabinets vomited all the walls and this fucking table—I HATE THIS FUCKING TABLE. IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATCH ANYTHING AND I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU FUCKING BOUGHT IT. YOU COULD HAVE WAITED FOR ME SO WE COULD HAVE GONE TO A REAL FURNITURE STORE AND BOUGHT A REAL FUCKING TABLE."

In the middle of all this, Sherlock had slowly risen to his feet, poised as though he was expecting some kind of physical assault.

"Watson," he addressed her guardedly. "I am by no means a medical professional. However, if I had to guess, I would say that you are quite affected by your hormones right now. If you could possibly contain yourself and take a deep breath, you might find yourself able to calm your feminine rage. I'll make you some tea if that would help."

Joan blinked at him. "Feminine rage?" she repeated softly.

She straightened up slowly, staring at him. Her hand closed around the cup of coffee next to her.

A moment later the mug was empty and Sherlock was shrieking. Loudly.

"FUCKING HELL, WATSON! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?" he bellowed. Stumbling around, he struggled to peel off the soaked sweater he was wearing. "Ah, FUCK," he yowled, vainly trying to swipe the remaining drops off his torso.

"Oops, sorry, was that still boiling hot?" Joan asked sweetly.

Sherlock glowered at her. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Don't worry, if you get any 3rd degree burns, I'm a doctor. Oh wait. Ex-doctor," she drawled, setting the mug down. Sherlock was pacing frantically around looking for something to wipe himself clean with. His eyes landed on Watson's coat, which was now strewn on the table.

"Oh no, no, no, no. I don't fucking think so. You touch that coat or get so much as one drop of coffee on it, and I will fucking rip your balls off, Sherlock," Joan warned, grabbing his arm and digging her manicured nails in.

"Ow! For God's sakes!" Spinning around, Sherlock grabbed Joan around the waist and backed her roughly against the table. Papers slipped under her hands as she tried to keep herself sitting upright on the edge. Sherlock's face was a mere few inches from hers, scowling. "Watson, I've had quite enough of your….your…."

"My what?" Joan snapped.

"…your… unfounded aggression!"

"Well you're going to see more of it if you don't fucking let go of me. I could knee you in the balls right now," she threatened.

In sudden movement, he pulled Joan's legs apart so he was standing between them. A gasp escaped past Joan's lips. "That is the second threat you've made against my testicles, Watson," Sherlock said in a low voice.

Joan recovered quickly. "What are you so worried about, Sherlock? You only use yours once a year when you hire your annual prostitute."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in exasperation. "I suppose for most men, that comment would be an incredible insult to their manhood. You're quite transparently trying to bait me now. And why? Because you're hoping to distract me from a certain fact…"

Watson held his gaze without backing down. He was testing the waters on this one, seeing how far he could go without her retaliating. It wasn't at all the good idea…them being in such close proximity, and with Sherlock wanting to speak his mind on the matter at hand. Joan knew it was a bad idea, but she leaned back and cocked her head, inviting him to continue anyway.

She could practically feel his gaze on her skin as those quick, blue eyes roved over her. "Cheeks flushed, pulse quickened, gooseflesh…Dr. Watson, you are aroused," he stated, just barely louder than a whisper. "As I affirmed before, you were hoping for your date to lead to a particular end, and it did not. Now you have a bare-chested man pressing you against a table and yanking your legs apart, like out of some seedy romance novel. And even if it is me, whom you seemingly abhor at the moment, and even if I smell strongly of coffee, the physiological response for desire seems to be there." Joan became aware of Sherlock's hand at the crook of her knee, sliding slowly upward along her thigh, pushing the material of her dress up as he went. Her breath hitched. "While it would be quite immoral to act on such desires considering our professional arrangement…" Sherlock continued, gauging her reaction as his fingers traced over the front of her panties, "I could certainly be of assistance if this is the manner in which you choose to release your…sexual frustrations."

Joan was breathless. "Sherlock, I know for someone like you, all that talking must be like foreplay, but seriously just shut up and get on with it."

A smirk played across his lips as he leaned closer, claiming her lips in a slow, and surprisingly ardent kiss. He broke away for a moment to knock a stack of files out of the way and lay Joan back on the table. "I'll do my best, Dr. Watson," Sherlock assured her. Without warning, his hands slid under her skirt again, fingers looping around the waistband of her lace panties and quickly stripping them off. Joan sat up on her elbows watching him with widened eyes. This was certainly moving along faster than she expected.

"Sherlock, what exactly are you…?"

He knelt, sliding Joan's bottom to the edge of the table and hooking her knees on his shoulders. "Just trust me a little, Joan" he coaxed, before his head disappeared beneath her skirt. Her legs went slack, her mouth parting in an 'o' when his wet tongue found its destination.

To say the very least…after that day, Joan never complained about the table again.


End file.
